Upon the Arrival of Dawn

By Joseph A Schiller

A darkness grows, threatening the delicate fabric of the Universe. An ominous cloud spreads, bringing an increasing imbalance across the Cosmos. Essences bent on wickedness and ultimate destruction are violently stripping the Energy of Life from innocent terrestrial creatures, bringing Existence to the very brink of collapse. Only one Celestial

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Aaron Schiller
• Release date: Jul 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986027524

Book preview

Chapter 1

"The winter of one’s life can be, and generally is, difficult to accept, especially when one is fully aware of just how quickly one’s twilight is approaching, as is often the case in old age. The associated anxiety can be particularly acute if one is agonizing over how significantly afflicted they are in the body and mind, and therefore, how accelerated their eventual deterioration shall be. Why is this thus? It is because death, as a state or condition of being, is what ultimately defines mankind’s mortality, determining man’s terrestrial destiny. Wicked and righteous souls alike fear its gradual approach. Anyone that proclaims they are prepared for the end of their corporeal existence is either deceiving themselves or is trying to fool others.

Perhaps it is unfair for the benevolent, the righteous, to feel any trepidation. After all, did they not try to live their lives in accordance with some commonly accepted sets of principles and values, cornerstones of a virtuous life? These individuals, if any beings at all, should be able to stare off into the beyond with stout hearts, possessing confidence that their post-terrestrial circumstance will be all they believed it could be. Nevertheless, they do not. For most, death’s embrace is felt the same, regardless of one’s individual merit. And that feeling is trepidation."

Kah, kah, kah…kah, kah, kah! coughed Cyril, in one of the increasingly frequent early morning spasms he had been having. Kah, kah!

If these spells would subside for even a moment, I might actually get a moment of peaceful slumber, he thought to himself in frustration. He was beginning to stir uncomfortably about his bed, clenching his fists around as much bedding as he could grab. The fits were becoming much more severe and persistent as of late, a source of growing concern.

While Cyril is an older gentleman, until very recently one might argue that he had enjoyed remarkably good health for a man of his advanced age. For the past several weeks, though, he had been essentially confined to his bed, unable to shake a spell of something respiratory in nature. Cyril’s condition began to change innocently enough – an early winter chill of sorts – but quickly progressed further into something much more serious. Bedridden, his physical state gradually worsened to the point that his family felt obligated to step in to tend to him full time.

When the family’s collective efforts to help him overcome his ailing condition failed, several physicians were dispatched to attempt to diagnose and treat him, all to no discernible avail. At the same time, the family, as is the wont of most of mankind when faced with similar circumstances, turned more of their attention toward a deity upon which they projected all of their collective hope could and or would intervene on their behalf, and make their loved one whole once again. While hopeful, there were some members of Cyril’s extended family who, nevertheless, began preparing for what seemed inevitable – their patriarch’s passing. And so, the family sought the presence of men they believed could intercede spiritually.

Mankind’s view of its physical condition early in life seems often to be one of almost invincibility or infallibility. Death, however, tends to remind all of just how truly fragile the nature of cellular organisms really is. Cyril’s family could regrettably only sit in earnest vigil day and night, while hoping desperately for signs that his situation would improve.

Cyril’s comfort was looked upon with the utmost care and absolute dedication. No expenses or conveniences were spared in providing for what was increasingly expected to be the family elder’s last days, or perhaps hours. If only everyone in such a state could be looked after with such an unconditional outpouring of compassion and devotion.

A man beloved by all that had the pleasure of knowing him, Cyril was, as would be considered by most, a good man. While he led, by all accounts, an unassuming and arguably ordinary life, he was at the same time virtuous and not without a sort of merit in humility.

Cyril was not an overly recognizable figure within or without his community any more than others of moderate success in life tend to be. As far as greater mankind is concerned with acquiring more money or possessions throughout life, he was by no means categorically wealthy. Nevertheless, he was, and it must be emphasized, more than respected by the few lucky enough to call him family, friend, and acquaintance.

Prior to this most recent period in Cyril’s life, of which this tale begins, Cyril was merely a humble clockmaker, constructing and repairing various time pieces in his small shop below the set of family apartments just a few paces from the center of his village. Certainly not a trade of any glamor or notoriety, but working hard, he was able to afford a sufficiently comfortable livelihood for his modestly sized family. Cyril was a good provider and a man adored by all. Now his family and friends were repaying his love and kindness in turn, with their own adoration.

Cyril’s hacking subsided long enough to allow him to gradually breathe a bit more steadily, and with a little less effort. He slowly opened his eyelids, and, with tremendous anguish, sat himself up in his bed. In his feeble condition he usually required someone’s assistance in order to move his fragile frame in any small way. He forced himself on this occasion out of a sudden sense of necessity. His numerous bedsores, a constant source of discomfort, were beginning to irritate him again, making the skin on his underside raw and sensitive to the touch. Gathering what little strength he could, Cyril propped himself up on his elbows.

Gingerly rotating his head about, Cyril slowly scanned his modest room. He noticed a small bowl of food was set carefully upon the nightstand next to his bedchamber. By the appearance of its contents, it was some sort of porridge, and had most likely been there for a while. Cyril knew his wife had been in to see him at some point earlier in the evening. The porridge by now had likely lost any aroma or flavor.

Food was once such an indulgence, though, now he was reduced to a largely liquid diet. In fact, he often had to force himself to consume whatever was prepared and act grateful for it. He stared at the bowl for several minutes, unable to decide whether he was desperate enough to try eating, before being overcome once again with sluggishness.

Fatigue often quickly evolved into drowsiness. Gently laying back down in bed, straining just as much as he had when he sat up, Cyril closed his eyes in an effort to return to sleep. In his heart, he said a quick prayer, asking in desperation for uninterrupted slumber; something he had not enjoyed now for several weeks.

He had just started to drift off when something startled him back to reality, believing that he had heard something faint, something akin to a soft voice calling out in the darkness of his bedroom. Heart thumping almost out of his chest, he remained perfectly motionless, holding his breath as best he could as he strained his ears for a hint of what had woken him. After several moments of no perceptible noise of any kind, Cyril felt convinced that he was in fact mistaken.

After all, this old home always makes such unexplainable noises, Cyril thought to himself.

It was possible that one of the many guests that had recently visited had perhaps neglected to close a window before retiring from the bedroom. Slightly frustrated with the prospect of being kept up all night with the constant swishing and swaying from an evening breeze stirring the curtains about his chambers, Cyril closed his eyes once again with a renewed determination to get a few more hours of repose before something else jolted him awake.

These thoughts of rest had no sooner filled his mind than Cyril once again thought he heard the faint call penetrating the silence ever so softly. This time, however, the voice seemed to be speaking his name, as a gentle whisper into one’s ear. With all of the intensity that he could gather, Cyril listened for the voice to repeat itself. His mind and heart began to race once again, renewed with scattered thoughts. Was this perceived voice merely the imaginings of a sick man? He was never one that believed in ghosts or specters, but he found himself questioning how firmly he disbelieved. He was not disappointed when several seconds later, like the passing of a light spring breeze across one’s face, and yet almost entirely imperceptible, Cyril was convinced that he unmistakably heard his own name called out to him from a yet undetermined corner within his room.

Cyril…

Who’s there?! Cyril called out as loudly as he could into the nothingness of the room, while nearly choking on his own words.

He was beginning to perspire quite heavily, sweat beading across his brow, while his heart rate now began to race out of control within his frail frame. He tried again to calm himself down by attempting to convince himself that the voice he believed that he had heard was nothing more than a symptomatic of a senile old man in desperate need of rest. After all, he was extremely sick, and anyone in his particular condition could be forgiven for having periodic episodes of delirium.

Yes, that is precisely what I am experiencing. These are simply hallucinations brought on by my weakened condition. My poor body is so tired. The sooner my eternal rest begins, the better, Cyril declared under his breath.

His mind wandered for a few moments. The instantaneous and equally terrifying realization that there was something like a hand resting gently on his left shoulder brought him back. Who’s there? he called out again.

Shivers immediately passed along his nerves. Fearing to move even a millimeter, he kept absolutely still for what seemed an eternity. A steadily rising heart rate and cold sweat returned with increased intensity. Finally, Cyril collected what little courage he could and painfully tilted his head ever so slightly toward his left side, to look upon whoever or whatever had taken hold of his shoulder. His eyes, finally fully adjusted to the absence of light, rested on an unfamiliar personage positioned on his left, and Cyril’s entire being frozen in debilitating shock. Terror instantly overcame him at the recognition of the figure moving to sit next to him on his bed. Terror, because he had an equally strong impression as to why this visitor was present.

This state of paralysis lasted for what felt like forever to Cyril. He feared and refused to move, to blink, to breathe, or to even make a sound. Wanting desperately to believe that he was in fact just dreaming, he tried to convince himself that at any moment something would at last stir him awake; that what he was experiencing was nothing more than a bad bout of hysteria. The personage’s eyes, nevertheless, remained locked with his, neither set deviating from the other.

It was the specter that finally penetrated the silence.

You recognize me, do you not? whispered the figure rhetorically, with an almost inhuman voice. You know of me and have strong suspicions of precisely why I’m here. Are you surprised?

Despite the solicitation, Cyril made no effort to respond in any way to the prompt. While not being aware of exactly why, there was a strange and instinctive acknowledgement of this being lingering by his side. Consequently, he was beginning, intuitively, to recognize this mysterious guest’s purpose for visiting, and, therefore, he remained resolved not to reply.

It’s perfectly understandable that you would resist responding, said the strange visitor in an attempt to break the stalemate.

The stranger looked upon Cyril with an almost gentle gaze, cocking his neck to the side slightly as he did. By doing so, you believe that you would ultimately be acknowledging my presence. And, by not answering…well, what do you hope the outcome to be? As much as you would like to convince yourself that these sensations, both auditory and visual, are nothing more than the product of your weakened physical state, deep down in your core you know that is mere foolishness. Yes...I can read your thoughts, and your feelings, as I can of all of your kind.

Cyril attempted to make out the full features of this personage. While he was unable